Sinister Street

"I envy you people," said Michael, as the three of them sank down into deep wicker chairs. "I envy this power you have to bring Oxford--or Cambridge--into London. For it is the same spirit in terms of action, isn't it? And you're free from the thought which must often worry dons that perhaps they are having a very good time without doing very much to deserve it."

"We work hard in this parish," spluttered Chator. "Oh, rather. Very hard."

"That's what I say. You have the true peace that thrives on activity,"

said Michael. "But at the same time, what I'm rather anxious to know is how nearly you touch the real sinners."

Stewart and Chator looked at one another across his chair.

"How much do we, brother?" asked Stewart.

"No, really," protested Michael. "My dear Nigel, I can't have you being so affected. Brother! You must give up being archaic now that you're a pale young curate."

"What do you call the real sinners?" asked Chator. "You saw our congregation to-night. All poor, of course."

"Shall I say frankly what I think?" Michael asked.

The other two nodded.

"I'm not sure if that congregation is worth a very great deal. I'm not trying to be offensive, so listen to me patiently. That congregation would come whatever you did. They came not because they wanted to wors.h.i.+p G.o.d or because they desired the forgiveness of their sins, nor even because they think that going to church is a good habit. No, they came in a sort of sad drift of aimlessness; they came in out of the dreariness of their lives to sit for a little while in the glow that a church like yours can always provide. They went out again with a vague memory of comfort, material comfort, I mean; but they took away with them nothing that would kindle a flame to light up the gray week-days.

Do you know, I fancy that when these picture-theaters become more common, as they will, most of your people will get from them just the same sensation of warmth and material comfort. Obviously if this is a true observation on my part, your people regard church from a merely negative att.i.tude. That isn't enough, as you'll admit."

"But it's not fair to judge by the evening congregation," Chator burst out. "You must remember that we get quite a different crowd at Ma.s.s."

"But do you get the real sinners?" Michael repeated.

"My dear Michael, what does this inquisition forebode?" said Stewart.

"You're becoming wrapped in mystery. You're found in Leppard Street for no reason that I've yet heard. And now you attack us in this unkind way."

"I'm not attacking you," Michael said. "I'm trying to extract from you a point of view. Lately it happens that I've found myself in the company of a certain cla.s.s, well--the company of bullies and prost.i.tutes. You must have lots of them in this parish. Do you get hold of them? I don't believe you do, because the chief thing which has struck me is the utter remoteness of the Church or indeed of any kind of religion from the life of that cla.s.s. And their standards are upside-down--actually upside-down. They're handed over entirely to the powers of darkness.

Now, as far as I can see, the Devil--or whatever you choose to call him--only cares about people who are worth his while. He hands the others over to anybody that likes to deal with them. Equally I would say that G.o.d is a little contemptuous of the poor intermediates. The Church, however, in these hard times for religion is glad to get hold even of them, and this miserable spirit of mediocrity runs through the whole organization. The bishops are moderate; the successful parsons are moderate; and the flock is moderate. To come back to the sinners. You know, they _would_ be worth getting. You've no idea what a force they would raise. And now, all their industry, all their ingenuity, all their vitality is devoted to the service of evil."

Chator could contain himself no longer.

"My dear fellow, you don't understand how impossible it is to get in touch with the people you're talking about. They elude one. Of course, we should rejoice to get them. But they're impossible."

"Christ moved among sinners," said Michael.

"It's not because we don't long to move among them,"

They're notoriously difficult."

"Then it all comes down to a 'no' in answer to my question," said Michael. "You don't get the real sinners. That's what's the matter with St. Chad's--until you can compel the sinner to come in, you'll stay in a spiritual backwater."

"If you were a priest," said Chator, "you'd realize our handicap better."

"No doubt," Michael agreed. "But don't forget that the Salvation Army gets hold of sinners. In fact, I'll wager that nine out of ten of the people with whom I've been in contact lately would only understand by religion the Salvation Army. Personally I loathe the Salvation Army. I think it is almost a more disruptive organization than anything else in the world. But at least it is alive; it's not suet like most of the Dissenting Sects or a rather rich and heavy plum-pudding like the greater part of the Church of England. It's a maddening and atrociously bad and cheap alcohol, but it does enflame. I tell you, my dear old Chator and my dear old Nigel, you have the greatest opportunity imaginable for energy, for living and bringing life to others, if only you'll not sit down and be content because you've got the children and can fill the church for Evening Prayer with that colorless, dreary, dreadfully sorrowful crowd I saw to-night."

Michael leaned back in his chair; the fire crackled above the silence; and, outside, the disheartened quiet of the Sabbath was brooding. Chator was the first to speak.

"Some of what you say may be true, but the rest of it is a mere muddle of heresies and misconceptions and misstatements. It's absolute blasphemy to say that G.o.d is contemptuous of what you called the intermediates, and you apparently believe that evil is only misdirected good. You apparently think that your harlots and bullies are better for being more actively harmful."

"No, no," Michael corrected. "You didn't follow my argument. As a matter of fact, I believe in the absolutism of evil the more, the more I see of evil men and women. What I meant was that in proportion to the harm they have power to effect would be the inspiration and advantage of turning their abilities toward good. But cut out all theological questions and confess that the Church has failed with the cla.s.s I speak of."

The argument swayed backward and forward for a long time, without reaching a conclusion.

"You can't have friars nowadays," said Chator in response to Michael's last expression of ambition. "Conditions have changed."

"Conditions had changed when St. Francis of a.s.sisi tried to revive an absolute Christianity," Michael pointed out. "Conditions had changed when the Incarnation took place. Pontius Pilate, Caiaphas, Judas, and a host of contemporaries must have tried to point that out. Materialists are always peculiarly sensitive to the change of external conditions. Do you believe in Christ?"

"Don't try to be objectionable, my dear fellow," said Chator, getting very red.

"Well, if you do," persisted Michael, "if you accept the Gospels, it is utterly absurd for you as a Christian priest to make 'change of conditions' an excuse for having failed to rescue the sinners of your parish."

"Michael," said Stewart, intervening on account of Chator's obviously rising anger. "Why are you living in Leppard Street? What fiery mission are you upon? I believe you're getting too much wrapped up in private fads and fancies. Why don't you come and work for us at St. Chad's?"

"He's one of those clever people who can always criticize with intense fervor," said Chator bitterly. He was still very red and ruffled, and Michael felt rather penitent.

"I wish I _could_ work here. Chator, do forgive me for being so offensive. I really have no right to criticize, because my own vice is inability to do anything in company with other people. The very sight of workers in cooperation freezes me into apathy. If I were a priest, I should probably feel like you that the children were the most important.

Have neither of you ever heard of anybody whose faith was confirmed by the realization of evil? Usually, it's the other way about, isn't it?

I've met many unbelievers who first began to doubt, because the problem of evil upset their notions of divine efficiency. Chator, you have forgiven me, haven't you?"

"I ought to have realized that you didn't mean half you were saying,"

said Chator.

Michael smiled. Should he start the argument again by insisting that he had meant even twice as much as he had said? In the end, however, he let Chator believe in his exaggeration, and they parted good friends.

Nigel Stewart came often to see him during the next fortnight, and he was very anxious to find out why Michael was living in Leppard Street.

Michael would not tell him, however, but instead he introduced him to Barnes who with money in his pocket was very independent and gave up sign of his boasted ability to circ.u.mvent parsons financially. No doubt, however, when he was thrown back on his own resources, he would benefit greatly by this acquaintance. Stewart had a theory that Michael had shut himself in Leppard Street to test the personality of Satan, and he used to insist that Michael performed all kinds of magical experiments in his solitude there. Having himself been a Satanist on several occasions at Oxford, he felt less than Chator would have done the daring of discussing Baudelaire and Huysmans. Deacon though he was, Nigel was still an undergraduate, nor did it seem probable that he would ever cease to be one. He tried to thrill Michael with some of his own diabolic experiences, but Michael was a little contemptuous and told him that his devil was merely a figure of academic naughtiness.

"All that kind of subjective wickedness is nothing at all," said Michael. "At the worst, it can only unbalance your judgment. I pa.s.sed through it at the age of sixteen."

"You must have been horribly precocious," said Nigel disapprovingly.

"Oh, not more so than anyone who has freedom to develop. I should give up subjective encounters with evil, if I were you. You'll be telling me soon that you've been pinched by demons like an Egyptian eremite."

Nigel gave the impression of rather deploring the lack of such an experience, and Michael laughed:

"Go and see Maurice Avery in Grosvenor Road. He's just the person you ought to convert. Nothing could be easier than to turn Mossy into an aesthetic Christian. Would that satisfy your zeal?"

"I really think you _are_ growing very offensive," said Nigel.

"No, I'm not. I'm ill.u.s.trating a point. Your encounters with evil and Maurice's encounters with religion would match each other. Both would have a very wide, but also a very superficial area."

November had arrived, and Michael reappeared in Cheyne Walk to a.s.sist at Stella's wedding. He paid no attention to the scorn she flung at his affected mode of life, and he successfully resisted her most carefully planned sallies of curiosity:

"What you have to do at present is to keep your own head, not mine.

Think of the responsibilities of marriage and let me alone. I'll tell you quite enough when the moment comes for telling."

"Michael, you're getting dreadfully obstinate," Stella declared. "I remember when I could get a secret out of you in no time."